


Leave It to Chuckbeast

by Neigedens



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Daddy Kink, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neigedens/pseuds/Neigedens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TG: trolls dont have shit like this im guessing<br/>TG: i mean unless theres like a niche of<br/>TG: idk yiffing with your monstermoms or something<br/>GC: >:?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave It to Chuckbeast

**Author's Note:**

> From [this prompt](http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/39135.html?thread=41837279#cmt41837279) at the kinkmeme. Original fic posted in the thread is [here.](http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/39135.html?thread=42075103#cmt42075103)

TG: wait are you serious

It starts out as a joke, but then most things with Dave start out like that-- jokes, or what Dave considers jokes, though what he considers jokes and what you consider jokes have been demonstrated in the past to be quite different.

GC: 1 N3V3R M4K3 JOK3S  
TG: yeah ok  
TG: i believe that  
GC: D4V3 TH1S 1S TH3 SORT OF OFF3R 1 M4K3 1N P3RF3CT S1NC3R1TY!  
GC: TH1S 1S TRU3 OF 4LL MY OFF3RS P4RT1CUL4RLY ON3S OF TH1S N4TUR3  
TG: do not  
GC: >:]  
TG: bracket smiley  
TG: dammit  
GC: SO? 1 ST1LL DONT H4V3 4N 4NSW3R  
TG: how do you even know what   
TG: i mean  
TG: trolls dont have shit like this im guessing  
TG: i mean unless theres like a niche of  
TG: idk yiffing with your monstermoms or something  
GC: >:?  
TG: wow never mind pretend i didnt say that  
GC: 1TS R34LLY NOT 4 B1G D34L  
GC: 1 H4V3 SORT OF DON3 R3S34RCH  
TG: wait what  
GC: SO HOW 4BOUT 1T?  
TG: ...   
TG: fine  
GC: >:]  
TG: if were going to do this tho  
TG: you have to stop making that face  
GC: F111111N3  
TG: textually and  
TG: you know  
TG: otherwise

==>

He comes to your respite-block after dinner, right before he would go to bed if his sleep schedule weren't fucked to hell and back. 

"Hello, son," you say. "Lock the door."

"Lame," he says as he turns the deadbolt. The deadbolt is probably overkill, but the mayor has been known to disregard others' privacy from time to time. "Don't call me 'son,' it's lame. This isn't Leave It to Beaver."

"Don't sass me, son," you say as he approaches the armchair. "This has nothing whatsoever to do with chuckbeasts."

"I don't know ab--" You cut him off by drawing your cane with a swish and placing the tip on his neck. He freezes and when you lower the cane (unsheathed), he lets out a breath.

"No swashbuckling, " he says. "That's dumb too." He lets out another breath and that, coupled with the few steps he takes to stand in front of you, clarifies your perception of him a great deal. You don't smile, though you feel like it. You can smell the damp on him, the humidity from the shower he took before coming here. His hair is still wet, still sticking to his scalp in places, and there are wet spots behind his ears and on the back of his neck. He's excited; he got over here as quick as he could after showering, didn't even dry off all the way before getting dressed.

"Come here," you say. "You've got a very sharp mouth, don't you?"

"Not as sharp as yours," he says, and you lash out to slap him across the face before he can add anymore. His head snaps to the side and he keeps it there to hide the grin he gets whenever something smarts, like that slap of yours probably did. You can feel the corners of his mouth turn up against your palm, and you brush over the warmth on his cheek where your hand connected.

"Come here," you say again, grabbing him by the cowl and dragging him forward. He stumbles slightly and you take the moment to pull out his cape and sniff it. "What is this?" you ask, yanking it. Doing so takes him off his guard; he stumbles again and rights himself on your knee, which he squeezes tightly.

You take the cue and grab his chin so he's forced to look at your face. It's purely symbolic for you, of course, but you can tell his spine stiffens as he looks in your dead eyes, and this close you think you can even discern the twitch of his eye muscles as they widen behind his shades.

"I asked you what the hell this is," you say, tugging on his cape and digging your nails into his chin. "Are you playing dress-up, Dave? Dispose of this useless trash. You shouldn't be playing pretend like a wr-- like a child."

His eyebrows raise slightly above the arch of his glasses and he gives you a look, maybe because you almost messed up there or maybe because you disparage the cape-- because of course it's all fun and games until you disparage the cape-- but he complies, removes his shades and tosses them on the side table before pulling off everything: cape, cowl, and shirt, and now he's on his knees in front of your armchair.

"Better," you say. "Yes, that's much better. No more make-believe, right, Dave?"

"Right," he says. "No more bullshit, daddy."

You slap him again. "What a mouth you have!" You sense from his voice and from the proximity of his eyebrows to his hairline that he is not yet taking you particularly seriously. Which is normally something you like about Dave, but in this context you believe you deserve something more.

You scoot forward in the chair and bend down to be face-to-face with him, pressing your foreheads together. You smell the angry red mark you've been making on his cheek, yes, but this close you can smell everything else too, down to the way his pupils dilate as he stares at you. You grab a fistful of hair at the back of his head to hold him there. "You want to be a good boy for me. Don't you?"

"Yes," he says.

You tilt your chin forward and ghost your lips over his, and he opens his mouth right away under yours, the speed of his breaths and the strength of his grip on your knees communicating enthusiasm even if his voice was dull. You wrench his head back by the hair and lick a stripe up his throat. Dave doesn't get how it is for you; it's not even what you smell or taste of his skin, it's how you can feel his very pulse, the tremor in his voice box as he holds back a comment.

"You're a good boy," you say softly into his neck, and you run your nails over his scalp. He's curiously sensitive to that; his skin under your mouth, all the way down his bare back, breaks out into bumps. You have to get very, very cold to have that reaction yourself, so when you do it to Dave you appreciate the tactile novelty of it. You drag your nails down his back and spread out your palm. "My precious boy," you say, and he makes a noise in his throat. If you weren't this close you wouldn't even hear it.

You move your hand over his bumpy skin, around to his front. His stomach muscles spasm as you run your hand over them down to the bump in the front of his pants. You hear him breathing harder in time with your every stroke, even as you feel the way he tenses trying to keep it under control. That makes you press down more, squeezing and digging your nails in-- not hard, you think, but the fabric is not thick and he's as sensitive as you are, after all, because he gasps: "Terezi!"

You withdraw completely, sinking against the back of the chair. You can still smell him, but you no longer feel him vibrate in your grip. "What was that?" You spread your legs wider. You can feel your bulge throbbing and your nook getting wetter even without having touched either. Which just goes to show the breadth of your commitment to xenosexual psychology, because 24 hours ago you were even quite sure what a father _was_ , and now you feel your nook tightening as you get Dave to call you one. To call you--

"Daddy," he says, and any trace of derision in his voice is cancelled out by the rushed way he says it. "I meant--"

You shush him sharply. "I don't want to hear what you _meant_ , Dave. I want to hear that you're going to do better." You cross your arms. "You _are_ going to do better, aren't you?"

He nods.

"What was that?"

"Yes." He winces.

"Good." You reach out to pet his hair, smoothing it down where it's frizzing up as it dries, before clenching a fist in it. You use it as support as you cant your hips toward him. "Then prove it to me." He gets the hint and quickly pulls your pants and underwear down for you. Your bulge unwinds when he exposes it to the air and he goes for it at once, gripping at the base before you can stop him. "No," you say, dislodging his hand even though it feels so nice there. "No, not yet. I know you want it. Don't you?"

"Yes," he says, and he's more breathless than he was even when you squeezed him.

"Too bad. Start down here." You put one of your feet over his shoulder and push his head down onto your nook. 

He starts off tentatively, just mouthing at your lips and feeling around for your entrance like he's the blind one. "Don't be shy," you say, dragging your nails over his back and digging in until you finally feel his tongue, impossibly long and reaching up inside you. You sigh and pet his hair again as he starts licking. Your bulge is aching to be touched; it's curled up at a warm spot in the crook of his neck, and the heat makes your limbs tremble. You feel like he's never gotten his tongue so deeply inside you before, and you tighten around him, wonder if you could come right there, right in his face, but no. "Stop. Stop." He comes up for air, panting and smelling so wonderfully like yourself, but underneath is still the flush of his own blood rushing to his face, to his tongue and his lips. You lean forward to kiss him, not even restraining yourself until you lick every trace of yourself off of him.

After that everything seems to happen much more quickly; you pull him onto your lap and get rid of his pants as you pull your shirt off. He tries to hold onto your chest, your horns, but you grab his wrists and you can tell he's staring at your face again, at the red pits of your eyes. "What do you want?"

"I want your bulge," he says. "Fuck me, just--"

"No," you say. "That's not how you ask this time."

He lets out a tiny moan of frustration; you feel the tendons in his wrist contract as he clenches his fists. "Whatever you want to call it. Your cock--"

"My dick," you say simply, and you can feel the flex of his muscles as he throws his head back. The blood is rushing to his cock, but his face is warming up again too, and you wish you had a free hand so you could feel it for yourself. "Tell me you want my dick."

"I do. I want your dick, daddy. I want you to fuck me."

You finally let him go so he can grab for the lube that he made-- you have no idea how, since it is his sex paraphernalia and not yours, but he squirts some onto your hand as you hold it out, and you reach down to spread it into his waste chute. He's kneeling, bracing his knees against the armrests and holding onto your horns for support, and eventually you feel him loosen, you hear him sigh as you move your fingers in and out. You spare some excess lube to wrap around his dick--his actual cock, not a tentacle-like sinuous protrusion like your bulge is. He takes your spare hand and holds it as he lowers himself onto your bulge, and you hold it straight as it can go. 

Dave starts rocking against you. You twitch the tip of your bulge around, hooking it forward until he lets out a noise, a strange one that's half a cough and half a whimper. You work his cock and that's almost too much for him because then he can only lean forward and support his shuddering body against your own.

You would love to keep him there until he collapses into a boneless mass, but instead you snap at him: "Get the bucket. Now." You have to repeat yourself before Dave finally moves himself off of you. He grabs it and sets it on the floor in front of you with a clatter. "Careful," you say, your voice tight with urgency. "Pick it up. Hold it for me." He leans it against the edge of the chair and reaches down to squeeze your bulge. You feel the side of your horn pressing slightly into one of Dave's temples, but he doesn't even mind, doesn't even mind when you wind your bulge around his cock until he comes into the bucket along with you. After a second, Dave sets the bucket aside the two of you collapse on the armchair together. 

The armchair is your common non-Can Town hangout, because you find beds uncomfortable, Dave has flat out refused to have anything to do with cocoons, and both of you would feel strange about having sex on a pile of stuffed plushes, for differing reasons. 

"That was fucking ridiculous," is the first thing he says.

"Didn't you like it?"

"It was ridiculous as shit. It broke the goofy meter. The goofy meter has exploded and is showering the audience with its flaming wreckage."

You tuck your bare legs over his and move closer to him, move closer to his face. Even from here you can feel the warmth on his cheeks. "You did like it. I knew it."

He doesn't deny it as you clean the genetic material off your hand and settle yourself more comfortably against his legs."It was...more subtle than I thought you'd be."

"Dave! I'm offended. I have a very subtle touch, as I have demonstrated time and again."

"You're about as subtle as a slit throat," he says, leaning against you and sighing. The comparison does not much suit your tastes, but you take it for what it is, which is a reminder to not ask too many questions. So instead you grab his discarded cape and wrap it around both of you, and over a period of a few minutes, before you can even think of many questions to ask, he's already fallen asleep.


End file.
